Here's a teaser for the novel I'm writing on right now: Heart of Ice.
It’s a half-finished basement. Unpainted plywood walls divide the space into several rooms like the one I’m in. I sit on a metal folding chair. Two of my gang mates stand behind me with loaded pistols. A third, Crates, paces between me and another woman. She’s tied to her chair. Even though she’s gagged and there’s a bag over her head, I know it’s Suzan.
I work with her part-time at a local restaurant. She goes out of her way to be a friend, inviting me out with her social group or having me over for dinner. I told her I was nothing but trouble. She didn’t listen.
“I’ll ask one more time,” Crates says. “Hopefully, the beating knocked some sense into you. What is Northside planning?”
It was the worst I’ve ever been beaten. Bruises must cover my body. I draw shallow breaths because it hurts to breathe. I’m bleeding internally. I have at least one broken rib; probably a few fractures. I give the same answer I gave before the beating: “I don’t care to say.”
“Why would you turn on us!”
“I didn’t. I’m still part of this gang.” Gang is an understatement. We put the organized in organized crime. Red Herring started as a gang and often pretends to be one, though, so that’s the term I use.
“You were at Northside’s meeting, and you won’t tell us what you heard. You’re a traitor!”
I roll my eyes. “I haven’t shirked any task or given away any info.”
“Northside is plotting against us, and you know what the plot is!”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know anything for sure. Nothing I say can help.”
Crates jabs a finger in my face. “That’s not for you to decide. Just tell us what you heard.”
“I don’t care to say.”
He grabs me by the neck, but I remind, “Dad said ‘no more.’ I’m his to hit, not yours.”
Crates settles down. “We’ve always been there for you. We pulled you and your dad out of poverty.”
“This gang has hurt me more than poverty ever could.”
“He said you wouldn’t budge.” Crates and the gunmen slip cloth masks over their heads so Suzan won’t be able to identify them to the police. Then Crates pulls the bag off our hostage. Suzan glances around in a panic and then locks eyes with me. She seems as scared and concerned for me as for herself.
“We found your only friend on the outside,” Crates schemes, “and, if you don’t talk, she’s gonna pay.”
I extend my hand to one of the gunmen. “Give me the pistol, Stutter; I’ll shoot her myself.”
Suzan’s eyes get big. Shrill noises pierce the gag.
Crates’s eyes get big too. “We’re not gonna to kill—” Intelligible words are replaced by cursing when I place two fingers to my lips like a gun. Tonya’s suicide still haunts him. “What is wrong with you!” He’s offended I would even reference such a dark memory, but I have a cruel sense of humor.
Stutter murmurs, “I told you that she has a heart of stone.”
That’s how I survive. Crates scans my bruised but blank face, looking for some indication I’m bluffing, some fear, some sympathy for Susan. He finds nothing.
